Burning
by Melody of Words
Summary: Suddenly she's very, very afraid. She's afraid of her burning heart, and of the burning heat that encloses and caresses her. She's afraid of the fire that makes her- forces her- to turn in that burning embrace and press her burning mouth to his hot skin.
1. Burning

**Author's Note: Oh, Chair. Won't you learn?**

**_Disclaimer_: _This should be relatively obvious. ;)_**

* * *

Blair Waldorf stumbles into Serena van der Woodsen's apartment, the smell of alcohol overwhelming the blonde's senses.

"Blair?"

"Yes, it's me. Can't you tell?" the brunette retorts. Her words are slow and slurred; she's not the normal Blair tonight.

"Blair, what happened?" Serena asks, masking her horror. Screw manners- this is her best friend, and Serena van der Woodsen is not one to judge. The brunette trips into the taller blonde's arms, and Serena falters a bit before straightening.

"I-I-" Blair stammers senselessly, arms flailing, feet tripping. Patiently, her best friend guides her to a fine leather couch. "I'm- It hurts!" Blair cries out. "So much. Here. It hurts too much!"

Serena notices the tear-stained cheeks and runny mascara. Blair Waldorf is never anything short of immaculate.

"What hurts?"

Blair flops backward, her brunette locks spilling onto the couch as she faces the ceiling with dazed eyes. Suddenly, she clamps her right hand into a fist, thumping it harshly against her heart.

"Here," she slurs.

"Blair," Serena asks cautiously, "what did you have?"

"Shots," comes the dazed reply.

"Shots?"

"Te-te-key-la,la,la!"

"Tequila shots? How many?"

Blair giggles hysterically.

"Enough to keep me from hurt-hurt-hurting!" She claps her hands before suddenly crying out in pain. "It's hurting!" Her hands claw at the air, groping. "Te-keeeey-la la la!" she calls in a singsong voice. Blair giggles once more.

"Blair, tell me the truth." Serena wraps her arms around the flailing petite girl, but suddenly Blair writhes out of her grasp and collapses on the floor at her best friend's feet. "What happened?" Serena asks, attempting to raise her best friend to a position more comfortable than lying prostrate on artful, yet scratchy carpet.

Serena watches in growing alarm as her normally composed best friend shivers violently.

"I-I-" Blair's voice trembles. Without warning, she bursts into sobs. It's not hysterical, like her laughter before, but broken and hopeless. Serena slides down from the couch in one fluid motion and wraps an arm around her friend.

"Shh," Serena soothes, softly rubbing her back. Sometimes, a Waldorf has to take a break from being self-sufficient and just be… be mothered. _Loved_. At the thought, Blair's sobs increase.

"I-I love him!" she whispers desperately, turning haunted brown eyes to face Serena's. "I love him so much, it-it hurts."

The circles stop for a moment, and Blair shivers violently, as if she's just been exposed to the freezing weather terrorizing the streets.

"It hurts! It hurts my heart so, so much," Blair slurs, and it's so unlike her that Serena has to wonder if love is really a cruel masquerade. "I can't even think his name without aching all _ohh-_ver," she rambles. "I want- I want-"

The brunette's eyes flash suddenly with a second of stubborn pride before returning to the glazed, drunken appearance she'd worn in the beginning. "I want te-keeeey-la!" she sings. With a giddy smile, Blair lets more alcoholic sensations take over her mind, while Serena wonders if she herself really knows what love is all about.

* * *

Blair likes the new, swirling, colorful sensations whirling around in her mind. They make the insides of her eyelids glow in the dark so she's not alone in the darkness, and they chase those burning, haunting images far away from her- even though they really aren't, but Blair likes to pretend.

Her head hurts, and her heart hurts, and her eyes are suddenly very, very sick of seeing so many neon colors flash and imprint their images upon her forever. Thank goodness the colors are saying bye-bye and the black at the edges of her vision is taking over. With a welcoming sigh, Blair falls into the black.

The black lets her feel a little and hear a little, but everything's like a dream- it has to be. What else?

She can feel strong, muscular arms carry her upward, and she remembers mumbling something about Eric feeling more muscular than he looks. And then Serena says-

What does Serena say?

Oh, right. That Eric isn't the one carrying her. She's confused, but she can't really remember a time when she wasn't, anyway, so she lets it go.

* * *

She can feel a protective, muscular arm slung over her, pressing her to a warm, muscular chest. Her head hurts like someone's hit it with a hammer a million times heavier than normal. But now, that crushing, overwhelming pain that makes her want to scream and cry and disappear all at once isn't what she's focused on. Suddenly, she's very, very afraid.

She's afraid of that warm, muscular arm that holds her to the burning hot body behind her.

She's afraid of her burning heart, and of the burning heat that encloses and caresses her.

She's afraid of fire.

She's afraid of the fire that she knows is in the eyes now closed behind her. She knows him always has, always will.

She's afraid of the fire burning her body where he touches her.

She's afraid of the fire that makes her- forces her- to turn in that burning embrace and press her burning mouth to his hot skin. He's always hot, not like the other man she was once afraid of, because he's not some perfect vampire. God forbid that he ever become perfect or unreal. She's afraid of that, too.

She's afraid of the searing fire that's racing up and down her skin as her lover responds with kisses of his own. She won't let go. She can't let go. She can't disappear, or be consumed, or anything that involves falling into him. She doesn't want that fire to take her -_oh_, but she wants it, too, so very, very much.

She pulls away from him suddenly, wrenching out of his grasp. The distance between them makes her shiver, and she pretends not to notice the feeling of loss that's making her heart ache all over again.

"No," she murmurs, choking back a sob. She can't cry in front of him, either, even if she's turned away from him. Blair Waldorf has dignity even when she's suffering a hangover.

The mouth that caressed her so easily before is silent, and against her own will, Blair's eyes well up with tears. She wills him silently with all her mind to say something, anything. She wants one word, right now, to drop from his mouth in that husky morning voice of his-

But wait. No. No, they can't be. No, she can't be. Because she's him and he's her, and to her at least, she's nothing without him. She doesn't care if no one else understands this; the point is that she can. She can understand it and she bears the pain of it, but what's true for her is not true for him. She's sure of that. Because if she's wrong- and she really, really wants to be wrong- then he would say something to her. And she would listen, and then they'd kiss and burn each other and he'd brand his name on her skin forever with his lips and tongue and teeth and fingers and-

She's burning again at the very thought, even though there's a cold distance between the two of them and the air is heavy with a pregnant silence that's just begging to be broken. So, she does.

She was never one to say no to begging.

"I can't be heartbroken all over again," she says coolly, assuming the calm composure of a Waldorf like she always does.

The one thing she never knows about Chuck is how much he knows her. Right now, he knows that she's faking it again, but he can't help himself from torturing her with his words, even though he knows that she's in enough pain already. Because they're not Chuck and Blair, Blair and Chuck, the newest couple to be monitored daily and destroyed by Gossip Girl.

They're Chuck and Blair, Blair and Chuck, the two who hate how much they love each other and how much they know each other and care for each other and really, really _see_ each other. That never gets on Gossip Girl. _Only when he does something wrong_, he thinks, fists clenching.

"But it's okay for you to hurt me?" he asks, knowing fully well how much he's hurting her. He smiles a little crookedly- but his smile is never perfect, after all- at her continued silence. "Because you know you do," he continues softly, in little more than a whisper. "You promise to stay with me, and then you leave me, and you pretend like it's okay because you're _always_ the _victim_ here," he hisses. She shivers, and he watches her hug herself as she rubs her arms self-consciously. He slowly reaches a hand out, extending one finger, and traces up and down her arm. His touch is so light, but it sears her and burns her and brands her all at once.

She wants more. She wants to feel more. She wants to be consumed.

But she can't be. She can't be consumed, because she doesn't want to be Blair and Chuck, Chuck and Blair, the teens having another scandalous affair.

She wants to be Chuck and Blair, Blair and Chuck, the only people in the world who can love each other so much it hurts. This love is nothing without the hurt.

He reaches his hand out farther, tracing delicately up over the short sleeves of her dress to the hollow at the base of her throat. She's still silent. His finger continues down her neck to the very edge of the conservative neckline. Chuck Bass doesn't do conservative.

He doesn't realize he's holding his breath as he slides his finger down under the neckline and scoots closer to her. She's breathing heavily, but his breath is almost ragged as his finger continues its agonizingly slow journey down to that tantalizing dip. He stops there, and gently places his mouth on the nape of her neck.

"Blair," he murmurs silkily, his voice vibrating through her neck. The way he says her name is so delicious, sending waves of heat rippling throughout her petite frame, and she wants only him to say her name all her life, because it's the most beautiful sound in the world. She doesn't tell him that, though.

"Charles," she says instead. He withdraws his finger and backs away from her neck. She feels like crying and the air is suddenly freezing.

"Why do you have to be so stubborn?" he asks. His voice, although husky, holds frustration. It doesn't matter though; it's not like anything can ever make him less attractive to her. She pulls away from him more, sitting up straight and smoothing out invisible wrinkles in her clothes. Her head feels like a ton of bricks, and she winces at the pain.

"Why do you keep doing this to m- _us_?" she asks without looking at him. He plunges into his reply without hesitation.

"Why do _you_ keep doing this to us?"

She looks at him sharply, and the pain throbs in her head worse than before.

"I do nothing," she defends. "You're the one who… maintains physical contact!"

"Oh, but you want it," he murmurs with a smirk, leaning in again. She tries leaning away, putting one hand to her forehead as it throbs painfully from the slight movement.

He leans closer anyway. Chuck Bass doesn't make things easy.

Neither does Blair Waldorf.

"That's a bad hangover you've got there," he smirks. "First time getting this drunk?" She swallows.

"No!" she claims, turning her head from him. "I, um… I've gotten drunk before." _With you_.

The unspoken words ring in both of their ears.

"With me," he whispers. His breath ghosts across her skin, and she's burning again.

"Drunkenness is for fools," she tries to hiss.

"Ah, of course it is. Yet here you are, suffering one of the worst hangovers I've ever seen." He leans back again, gazing in the other direction, and she knows he's toying with her.

"You were drunk last night, too," she says, refusing to look at him.

"I'm drunk every night, Blair," he says, and her heart feels heavy at the exhaustion in his voice. "But," he muses, after a long silence, "yes, last night was different." She wants to crawl under the covers and disappear, but they smell like him anyway, so she can't escape.

"Why? Found a new whore?" she spits out venomously. Out of the corner of her eye, she can see him turning his head languidly to her. She can feel his gaze passing over her body, but she's not burning. She's shivering.

"Why were you drunk?" he asks. She wrestles with telling him the whole truth and forcing him to answer her question. She settles for neither.

"Why do you care?"

He chuckles darkly at her stubbornness, and it's not a carefree laugh. It's heavy with the past and the present, and it chills her to the bone.

"I was drunk for the same reason you were."

* * *

**Author's Note: I seem to be loving this temperature-based sensation lately. Should I encourage it or murder it? Please review, I'm begging you! _Begging you!_ They'll help me survive midterms.**


	2. Bitterness

**Author's Note: This was originally to be a oneshot. But as fate would have it, I forgot to click Complete. And I simply couldn't ignore the 10+ Story Alerts that flooded my inbox, or the review alerts telling me to update. It seems that our mistakes can be our greatest triumphs. Or maybe I'm just being incredibly arrogant at the moment...?**

**Disclaimer: _Unfortunately, the fact that this section is necessary for me to write should let you know that I don't own. I do own the 'word' romangst. ;)_**

* * *

It's an off again on again romangst. He breaks her heart- she breaks his- and she finds solace in another boyfriend whilst he drowns himself in liquor and girls. But sometimes, she thinks, peering up at him through clouded eyes, sometimes fate, in its own wicked way, chooses to break her heart again- and his- with moments like this. One minute she's secretly submerging herself in the cheapest of booze to match the cheapness she feels within her, and the next he's standing at her side, smirking lazily.

"Another shot," he tells the bartender before directing his roaming gaze back on her face. At least, she thinks it's her face. It had better be her face.

"What are you doing here?" he finally asks, but the way he's smirking at her lets her know that he knows exactly what she's doing. She scowls. Of all the men in the world, she has to like- _love_- him.

"Give me…" she pauses, trying to think through the sweetly alcoholic fog. "Give me another one of those… those tequila… shots," she orders the bartender. She's Blair Waldorf, and she'll order anyone anytime.

But he's Chuck Bass, and he'll torture anyone anytime.

"Make that six," he tells the bartender in his smooth, velvety voice. He flicks his gaze back down to where she sits on the frayed red stool, her tiny hands clinging to the edge of the stained counter for balance. She tries to glare at him, but it's hard because the alcohol makes her want to float far away, not turn Chuck Bass and his stupid, heated smirk into a pile of ashes. Actually, she thinks with a slight wince, the alcohol makes her feel like she's being turned into a pile of ashes.

Burning.

Smoldering.

Smoking.

And she hopes -in vain- that it's not because his eyes are staring at her, because he's already burned her in more ways than one, and she's afraid to give him another chance.

He sits there, on a patched, faded stool next to her, staring at her feverishly behind a cool composure, drinking her in. It doesn't matter to him that she's less than perfect right now- he hopes to God that she'll never become more perfect than she already is, because then he's afraid she'll realize how much he dirties her- sullies her- by his mere thoughts.

He's afraid to touch her.

He's afraid that if he touches her, right here, he'll set her on fire and destroy her.

_Like everything else he's destroyed._

He's afraid that if he touches her, right now, he'll break her into a million pieces and never be able to put her back together.

_Because she holds his heart._

But most of all, though he won't admit it right here, right now, he's afraid that if he touches her, she'll push him away.

And that would set him on fire and break him into a million pieces _all at once_.

He wants her to stay- _imperfectly_- perfect and _here_, drinking herself into the lonely haze that he's known for most of his life.

His hands are burning with his desire, and searing drops of sweat drop down his face- but they feel like blood. So, softly, hesitantly, he reaches out one finger and forces it steady before dragging it slowly through her brown locks to the nape of her neck.

Chuck Bass doesn't do self-control.

But Blair Waldorf? Blair Waldorf can't do it for long.

She turns to him slowly, and for one moment, Chuck Bass feels strangely open and vulnerable. So does she. And when she turns to him, he moves his finger down her warm cheek as she closes her eyes. He pulls his finger back and studies it with a sad wonder in his eyes. The teardrop on his finger is _pure_ and _clear_ and _glistening_. It's _beautiful_. Hesitantly, he tastes it.

It's bitter.

Suddenly there are a thousand emotions crashing down on them and the world just peels apart. He takes her face and tastes the bitterness trailing down it, and she drowns herself into the bitterness of his embrace, his touch.

It's an odd feeling that nestles deep into their heart of hearts, and they can feel each other's hearts beating furiously. They press together more, and she cries more bitterness, and he holds back his own-just like he always does. She can feel him beating against her, punctuating their heavy silence with frantic, desperate thumps. She can tell immediately when her heartbeat becomes synchronized to his, and they despair together, as one.

As the one that they're afraid to be.

Because whenever they become one, they burn and smolder and brand and flame. They explode until their dark world is lit up with bursts of vivid colors. And they rest in each other's arms and hold on for as long as they can, holding on to the colorful visions, holding on to the fragile, paper world they can make for each other, holding on to the sense of being complete. They hold on to the life that can be bright and cheerful and perfect for as long as they can and whisper sweet lies to themselves about how it can be real. They cling desperately and anxiously and doubtfully and wondrously and wistfully and passionately to each other.

They try to dream together, but it always turns into the worst of nightmares. There's a reason that the bed's half wet with tears and half cold with the dreadful emptiness that haunts them both every morning. One of them always leaves. One of them always cries. But they never tell each other, because that only makes _them_ more real. That only gives the despair a name, gives _them_ a name.

And they must be nameless forever. Because to give them a name would be to call the things beating within them hearts and to make every emotion that floods through them all the more real.

They're incredibly cruel. Partners in plotting. Companions in the subtlest of crimes. They crush and destroy and ruin. But who would have thought that they would be most cruel to themselves?

Because they crush and destroy and ruin each other with every chaste kiss, every heated meeting, every cold glance, every cruel glare. They hate each other and hurt each other. They love each other and hurt each other. They can't stop themselves from the destruction- it's an addiction. And like every addiction, they can't help but slip away and drown and die and ruin and destroy and despair and fade in it. The destruction builds a wall of rubble that they dare not touch; a wall of the fragmented pieces of their cold, cruel hearts.

And yet…

_Yet_…

When their cold, cruel hearts touch and beat as one…

They burn. They brand. They smolder. They flame. They smoke. They scorch.

Didn't they listen to the old nursery rhymes? _Ashes to ashes, we all fall down_.

Still, they fall the hardest. Blair and Chuck, Chuck and Blair. They're caught in a prolonged game of Ring Around The Rosies that they love to trap themselves in, even though they know the end. They fall into each other and away from each other and into the inevitable burning.

But the truth still hits them like a thousand hammers nailing them back into their respectable, cold positions the moment that they separate from each other's embrace. The truth that sneers at their desperate need to lie to each other- lie to themselves. The truth that tells them that they can never be the perfect Blair and Chuck, Chuck and Blair that they want to be. The truth that tells them that they'll always be imperfect, impossible- just like they are alone.

Like _she_ is every day, when she faces her reflection in the mirror and smoothes herself into perfection. The perfection that destroys her every day.

Like _he_ is every night, surrounded by skimpily clad girls who give hima whole lot- but only empty him more. The emptiness that destroys him every night.

Like when _she's_ surrounded by her clones or adoring admirers- but _he's_ never among them- on the steps or strutting through the halls-

_She's_ really alone. She stopped searching for a pair of dark, soulful eyes among them a long time ago.

Like when _he's_ smothering himself in meaningless kisses with faceless girls that aren't _her_-

_He's_ really alone. He stopped searching for a petite brunette dancing among them a long time ago.

* * *

When an exhausted Serena van der Woodsen- who's searched for her best friend and step-brother all day- stands outside the dingy bar in Brooklyn, she isn't surprised to see Chuck Bass completely drunk in a dark corner surrounded by his whores.

And when she walks into the bathroom, holding her raincoat close like a shield, she isn't surprised to see Blair Waldorf throwing up into a chipped toilet.

She takes Blair and helps her stagger outside the bar. And though the brunette walks in a cloudy, sickly-sweet alcoholic haze, eyes closed, head tilted back, she walks with her back to him. With a shuddering, shivering ripple of pain slicing through her heart, she ignores the dark eyes that she can feel staring at her through his own closed lids. Secretly, though, in the dark safety she finds behind her own closed eyelids, she stares right back.

Completely unemotional. Completely untouchable-

Unless you open her eyes.

But when she walks out into the cold, freezing rain, and it runs mercilessly down her face, she can't help but add another trail of bitterness to the black- with her perfectly applied mascara- wet tracks already streaming down her face. She can't help but mourn the coldness that douses their burning.

Because when it's all said and done, when they've

Burned…

Smoldered…

Branded…

Flamed…

Exploded…

… all that's left is bitterness.

* * *

**Author's Note: _Review_? I want to know if I ruined your expectations. One more update to go, then this'll be done. Happy end-of-midterms!**


	3. Morning Light

**Author's Note: I'm absolutely terrible. I'm so sorry for taking so long to update (and even with such lovely reviews- thank you so much!). Also, WARNING. I, being paranoid, have judged this to possibly be borderline M. No, I'm not a review addict, but let me know if I should up the rating, please.**

**Disclaimer: My only claim is my fandom. :/**

**SECOND WARNING: After reading this last chapter, I'm afraid many of you will hate me forever. I've been feeling a bit dark lately...**

* * *

It's the eve of her wedding day. She really shouldn't be surprised, and neither should he.

She shouldn't be surprised that it's the night before her wedding, and she's spending it at that old dingy bar in Brooklyn. Oh, the bartender's pretty surprised. She hasn't been there in years- ever since that bitter, cold night. That's the night they both put away their burning.

It seems coldhearted to do such a thing. How could they pack away their fire so easily? How could they douse it so coldheartedly? How dare they?

It's not like they haven't met each other since that night. They've seen each other's faces. But they both know that it's all just a mask, all just another façade so no one will ever see their past. It's been a while since their hearts have beaten as one. It's been a while since they _were _one.

They're afraid again. Always afraid- always _so_ afraid.

They're afraid of letting the suffocating emotions and memories out.

They're afraid to acknowledge that there is a past.

They're afraid to acknowledge that there might have been a 'could have been'- a future.

They're afraid to look at each other.

They're afraid that if they let out the fire and the bitterness, the world will torment them and crush them for defying expectations.

They're afraid to ruin plans created in childhood- plans of perfect weddings and ruling a business.

She packs it away without a tear. He packs it away without regret.

How dare they?

* * *

They really shouldn't be surprised to see each other at the same bar, years later, years wiser. After all, they are the only ones to see past each other's mask. No other heart can match the unison of theirs. No other body, no other mind, no other soul has ever had such a bond as theirs. So, they shouldn't be surprised.

But they are.

The stools are still red and frayed. The bartender is still bleak. It's like nothing has really changed.

The bitterness hangs between the two like a weighted thread, ready to snap at any moment, ready to drag the two down with it.

"Blair," he murmurs in his velvety voice, bowing his head respectfully before her. She closes her eyes briefly and conjures a memory in her mind's eye. In the secret darkness behind her eyelids, where the images she sees will not be known to anyone else, she takes comfort in the memory of his soulful gaze staring down at her, dark depths worshipping her form. The bartender coughs. Slowly, reluctantly, she opens her eyes to face the man before her. Years older, years wiser.

"Charles," she begins. In her head, she's already planned out the well-mannered way to greet him. 'Charles, fancy meeting you here.' Her throat chokes up, and her mouth suddenly weighs a ton. Staring down at a perfectly manicured hand, she remembers his gaze again; remembers the heat that once accompanied it.

"Oh, Charles," she repeats hesitantly, grasping for a reason to call him by any other name. She slumps tiredly onto a bar stool. She peers up at him through thick lashes before sighing wistfully and turning away. With an elegant twist of that fair hand- the one bearing the beautiful ring that wounds him so painfully- she signals the bartender.

"What'll it be? Wine?" asks the old man. Blair's mouth twists almost cynically and she shoots him a wry smile.

"Shots. Tequila shots. Until I pass out."

The surprised bartender can't help but offer his elderly advice. "Aren't you getting married tomorrow, miss?" he asks, concerned. She frowns imperceptibly at the idea of tabloids publishing her private affairs, but shakes it off. She isn't a socialite for nothing.

"Hmm, you're right," she answers casually. The bartender smiles in relief. "Do you have anything stronger?"

She watches the bartender mutter an apology for interfering in her affairs and a slow, darkly satisfied smile spreads across her face. It's rather like being Constance Queen again. An odd noise startles out of her reverie, and she turns to find Chuck on the stool next to her, trying to muffle a laugh. Their eyes meet, and the look on her face makes him want to say those three words over and over again until she becomes his. It's a pity he isn't one to talk such things. He's a man of action, and he'll make her his another way.

At least for one more night, he'll hold on to her and think of her as his own.

At least for one more night, he'll wish.

"Blair… " he starts, before drifting off. Suddenly he grabs her face between his two hands and studies it with frightening intensity. She feels the warmth of his hand against her cold skin, and she can't help but close her eyes and lean into his touch. Her face flushes from the small warmth, and from the raking beams of heat that sweep her from head to toe, sending shivers down her entire body with his every look.

Her face is still as young and flawless as he remembers, and her fairness is painfully immutable to him. He wishes, for one dark moment, to break her in half so that she becomes as ruined as he is. Her eyes flare open and meet his gaze almost as if she reads his thoughts. Raising a small, elegant finger, she gently traces the contours of his face. She hesitates for one brief pause before sighing and looking away as she flips her hand so that he can feel the sharp gem of her engagement ring poking into his face. His eyes are fathomless- emotionless, calculating- before he nods.

"I know," he murmurs.

"I wish-"

"I know."

"But you-"

"I'm sorry."

She bites her lip.

"Why did we… that night? Why did we?" she asks in a lost voice.

"It was always there, don't you think?"

"That- that cold thing? I thought it was just me."

His gaze becomes tender.

"No, you could never be cold, Blair."

She scoffs. "I'm cold every day, Chuck."

"But you're never cold to me."

She glances at him critically. "You're too arrogant for your own good."

"You're too beautiful. I think you're too perfect."

Her gaze drops from him and she shakes her head slightly.

"No. I'm never perfect. The Archibalds… I could never be good enough."

His eyes harden, and his grip becomes a vice.

"Don't you dare say something as stupid as that. Who told you that lie?" he spits out.

"Well, isn't it obvious? Nate still doesn't want me as much as he wants Serena… or Jenny… or is it Vanessa? Well, he doesn't. I would be a perfect Archibald wife, you know," she tells him, twisting out of his grip to gulp down a shot, "I would. But my husband-to-be doesn't love me for it. Isn't that a shame?"

"Yes, it is a shame," he answers after a moment, helping himself to one of her shots and ignoring her annoyed glance. "Absolutely terrible."

"Horrible."

"Wicked."

"Unlucky."

"Terrifying."

She pauses mid-gulp. "Terrifying?" she asks.

He doesn't look at her, but leans back a bit and tips a glass of tequila to his mouth.

"Terrifying," he tells her after wiping his mouth. "To think that I will be king of Bass Industries, but the one thing I most prize, most adore, most want… that thing will be in the hands of another. And I… I think it would be terrifying to know that I would be caught between killing that other, or killing myself." Her eyes widen as he gulps down another shot. "Do you know what's worse?" he asks her, fixing a slightly bleary gaze on her. She shakes her head silently. "What's worse is that the one thing I… love most over all other things is in the hands of one who doesn't prize her… it… _her _as much as he should." He shakes his head and laughs darkly. "Isn't that a shame?" he asks almost casually.

The air is silent and heavy once more, like a thick blanket thrown over their lives. For a moment, they don't want to throw off the covers and let the morning light expose them for who they are. They want to stay underneath and pretend to be warm though they're cold. Pretend to burn and smolder and explode under the covers, when all they do is freeze in their bitterness. If they throw off the covers, will the morning light heal them? Will it hurt them? What is this blanket? Is it lies? Is it bitterness? Is it the past they tried to bury? Is it the future they pretended to create?

They're too afraid to find out.

* * *

"You're an idiot."

He smirks, and she bites back a gasp as she sees her old Chuck in that smirk.

"I'm your idiot."

She huffs proudly. "You're such a child."

He leans toward her, gazing at her earnestly. "We're still young, Blair. We still have time."

She lets the silence between them become awkward before breaking it.

"I won't have you, you know," she tries to assure herself.

"You _can't _have me."

She dips a finger into her glass, swirling the tequila around. Almost innocently- almost- she slips her finger into her mouth and sucks her finger clean.

The haze is a bit better this way. The high is a bit higher this way. Being sensual and drunk- the two sensations swirl around until they're one.

At least, that's what she says.

For Chuck, all he can see is his beautiful, wicked, cunning, intelligent Blair showing him again that maybe he hasn't discovered all of her. It makes the reality all the more painful; after tomorrow, he'll never have the chance to explore her again. He turns away from her.

"What's with you and tequila shots?" he asks indifferently.

"Nothing. What's with you and whores?"

"Nothing."

They each drink a shot.

"Do you love him?" he asks her quietly.

"Does he love me?" she asks him. He looks down at his glass.

He's so warped. So screwed up. He looks into his glass of alcohol and sees himself. He can see his past and his future in alcohol. Chuck Bass can't see anything else anymore. He wonders when he started to become so twisted.

A hand grabs his. A smooth, soft, slender, beautiful left hand clasps his left. A ring pokes into his left ring finger. He closes his eyes. Gently, Blair moves her right hand across his back to his right hand and clasps it too. She lays her head on his left shoulder and kisses it softly. Chastely.

* * *

The morning light is prodding them through their blanket, urging them, coaxing them.

* * *

"We should wake up from this," she tells him absently. The bartender has long disappeared into a back room, escaping from the past of the star-crossed couple who wish with all of their might to do the same.

He raises their left hands so that the ring on her finger sparkles in the dim, flickering light overhead. "How do you wake up from a nightmare?" he asks her musingly.

"I hate this ring. I've always hated this ring," she says, contemplating it.

They rest together like that, fitting into each other perfectly before he breaks the comfortable again. Who knows how long they would have stood like that if he hadn't? But comfortable isn't an option with him.

"Run away with me, Blair."

She doesn't know how long it takes for her to comprehend his question. He doesn't know how long it takes for her to answer. Five minutes? Five years?

One long night?

* * *

One long night.

The back of a limo.

The moon, its pure silver light passing over the pretending couple.

"We should wake up from this, you know," he murmurs in her ear before kissing it.

Somewhere in the back of her mind, while she cries his name over and over again, Blair wonders when they started to fool themselves into thinking they'd always burn.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, while he desperately brands his name into her flawless skin, he sees the image of that ring, and he wonders when they slipped beneath the covers of a dark blanket of lies.

This night is not for worrying about the day. It's only to burn again. To come alive again. Blair has to come alive again before Nate touches her and she becomes -legally- one with him. Chuck has to come alive again before he lets her go and dooms himself to drown in a father's legacy.

For right now, he'll drown in her eyes, in the sounds of their forbidden union, in the beauty that they can make together. It's so dark, so enticingly dark, and he drowns in his temptation gladly, almost as greedily as it accepts him.

For right now, she'll become one with Chuck in her heart and her head, her body, mind, and soul; in her everywhere, her everything- but never on paper. Never in words. Words reject her, after all. Paper rejects them both. Tabloids, GossipGirl texts, newspapers, emails, letters, expectations, wills…

Only on paper, only in words, they can never be one. She smiles slightly at the idea of being one on paper. Would their names blend together into one? That would be the closest way to imitate the unity with him that she feels now. BlairChuck. ChuckBlair. Black? Chair? Black Chair. It's almost funny to think of. But if that would be what it would take to become completely his… she's always wanted to wear a white dress and walk down a long aisle in a beautiful church. She's always imagined having the perfect wedding; she's planned out her bridesmaids since she was 5, and the flowers she wanted, and her plans included her father walking her down the aisle to Nathaniel Archibald. God knows, she's planned a lot.

Eloping never has fit into her plan. Eloping is supposed to be the legacy of the van der Woodsens, not the Waldorfs. Waldorfs have diamonds and crystal, satin and silk, indigo and crème. Perfection is a staple.

So even if Blair Waldorf hates perfection, her plans are hard to let go.

Run away with Chuck?

She has never thought about eloping in her plans, and certainly not with Charles Bass.

_Run away with me Blair…_

* * *

An hour or a year later- in a never ending nightmare like theirs, what is time?- she's crying. He lowers himself on top of her and nestles his head into the crook of her neck.

"Oh, Chuck," she murmurs softly through tears. "Why?"

"You should know that I don't intend on letting you go willingly," he tells her, burrowing further into her soft skin.

"No, that's not what I meant."

"I know."

* * *

They pause beneath the blanket, and she knows that he's silently begging her not to throw it off.

* * *

"Then answer me," she demands. He sighs against her, and his breath ghosts over her skin, warming her. She's freezing, cold to the touch. Then again, his touch is just as cold.

"I don't know," he admits helplessly.

"Why aren't we burning?" she cries to him. Her tears drip soundlessly down her face and drip between their bodies. It seems that they can still be separated by bitterness after all.

"What have we done?" he asks softly.

"I shouldn't have left you that night."

"No, it was right. You deserve better. I'm sorry for dragging you down with me."

"What, are you insane?"

"Maybe. Maybe it's contagious."

"I… did you ever wonder why I always stood with you?"

"Naturally. Every reason I thought up was illogical."

She pauses, thinking over her next words.

"Love isn't logical, Chuck," she tells him slowly.

"Why?" he asks, almost pleading.

"It can never be logical."

"Why?"

"We're not logical. We're not sane. If we were, you'd be handling your business, and I'd be dreaming of a perfect wedding tomorrow."

"Do you love him?" he asks suddenly. She twists to face him.

"Don't you know by now?"

"Say it."

"Why?"

"It's just one word, Blair. Just say it."

"I… no. No. I could never love him as more than a friend. After tomorrow, I'm not even sure _that _will last."

"Then run away with me."

"I've always wanted a white dress," she tells him.

"I'll buy you a thousand."

"I've always wanted a beautiful ring."

"I can get you that."

"I wanted to walk down an aisle."

"That can be arranged."

She holds back more tears.

"I planned for so much," she whispers.

"I think our plans went up in smoke a long time ago."

They stare at each other for a moment, and he dreads her answer more than he dreads what tomorrow will bring.

"Chuck?" she asks him softly.

"Mm?" He traces his name on her back one more time, almost dejectedly, as if relinquishing her to morning.

"Let's run away together."

"You've always wanted a white dress…"

"More than anything. More than Yale."

"More than Yale…"

"I know."

"You've always wanted a beautiful ring."

She smiles wickedly.

"We can use his."

He smirks.

"I can get you better."

She smiles at him dryly, as if silently mocking their naivety, and raises her arm to cross over his back and run her fingers through his hair.

"You… drank one… the first time you ever showed me that you actually drank alcohol… you drank a tequila shot. Do you remember that?" she asks him hesitantly.

"You… you're perfect. You're beautiful. I… I'm not. I hate perfect. Since I was aware that I'd killed my mother… I wanted someone to accept my… imperfectness. Those whores… they didn't seem to mind. And they weren't better than me, so I didn't mind either."

"You think I'm your whore?"

He turns his dark gaze to her before enveloping her in his arms and kissing her until all she can sense is him.

"Never. Never in a million years. You're better than me, and… I did mind. I'll never forgive myself for this, you know. For breaking you and trapping you here in my hell."

""I'm not your fragile doll."

"No, you're my angel. I think I'm a demon."

His words hang over them both. There are a thousand words she could say to break the silence, a thousand meaningless excuses. Like, 'You know I'm not an angel,' or, 'You could never be a demon. You're too good for that.'

She doesn't though.

She clutches his head between her two petite hands and roughly pulls him to face her.

"Then drag me to hell."

* * *

They kick the covers off. They discover that the light of the morning is blindingly brilliant… and fiery.

* * *

In the back of a limo, with a full moon as their silent witness, Chuck Bass sets Blair Waldorf on fire. He takes her back as his and reminds her, over and over again in a husky voice, that she's no one's but his and that he won't have anyone but her.

She knows he's telling her he loves her.

For a second- day? Year?- they fear that it's too late.

Even as he feels his skin burning at her touch, he wonders darkly if she would have a brighter future if he had only told her he loved her that one day. Perhaps it's his fault that they are not the ones to get married tomorrow.

Even as his name is written with fiery fingers into her skin, into her heart, she can't help but regret rejecting him so quickly. Was it her stubbornness that kept them from being together from eternity? If she hadn't walked to Nate Archibald in kindergarten that day to spite the black haired boy who took her crayons, would they have been the It Couple?

But the morning light shows them every shadow, every monster, defeated or not. _Wake up. See the light_.

"Chuck," she whispers in his ear almost happily, "aren't you glad we aren't traditional?"

He can't help but smile.

* * *

Their union is more beautiful than the last, more dangerous than the last, brighter than the last. They burn in hell's flames; they reach the heights of heaven. In the back of a limo with tinted windows, they come together in such a brilliant, glorious display that the light of their union rivals that of the moon and its celestial co-hosts. All the lights in the sky and all the lights of the city seem to dim before the overwhelming light of two exploding stars, giving in to the darkness, giving in to the light: a supernova.

Suddenly it becomes painfully clear that there is more to them than burning and exploding. There is more than an inferno raging between them. There is more than bitterness and cold, more than lust, more than love. They are more than bleak, more than hopeless. The future they only dreamed of becomes a step more possible.

There's a compromise, though. There is darkness and light. There are the flames of hell and the heights of heaven. This is not the picture they painted together before the bitterness. They painted themselves a world of lies: a place where their betrayals never existed, where they could be a story of happily ever after without being crushed by the world.

Even in death, they can't help but paint more colors across the sky of their forbidden dreams. When two stars explode, things like a limo crash in the middle of New York City have no meaning. The stars dim and dim until they are violently released into death. And in their death, they create the most exquisite art the world has ever witnessed, the most celestial masterpiece the universe has ever beheld. Around them are lies and deceit, betrayals and crushed dreams. Around them are hopes and promises, childlike wonders and love. Somehow, by some miracle- or maybe because Blair and Chuck are simply that warped- it's beautiful.

And now, now they've finally freed themselves. They can't lie to each other anymore; they can only love. No, a future isn't theirs anymore, but maybe if they can still cling to it tight enough from the heavens it'll become theirs. The light of day makes every betrayal, every lie clearer than before. When the covers come off, the masks shrivel in the sunlight. The ambulances wail, the tears flow, the smiles fade. When the covers come off, chains break, and murdered butterflies fly free into the city.

The morning light is glorious, liberating, beautiful, celestial-

all the things they'd always hoped to be.

* * *

In the light of morning, the limo is completely wrecked, its mangled remains removing any hint of the night. Serena van der Woodsen, through her tears and hysterics, is somehow not surprised that they're ashes now. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust-

We all fall down.

There's a piece of paper among the ashes, next to a soot covered ring. Scribbled vows, but only one line is still legible:

_'Til death do us part._

* * *

They never were just Chuck and Blair, Blair and Chuck, New York City's Romeo and Juliet.

They just were.

* * *

**Author's Note: Thanks for sticking for the ride (and not throwing tomatoes). I don't know what I'd have done with this story without your reviews. I can honestly say that this is the darkest piece I've ever written, and it wasn't supposed to be this way. Review? Flames are good, too. :) Since you've finished this story, I'd like you to remember that:**

**-The best part of pretending is when the masks come off. The best part of night is when morning comes.**


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